Here's Where I Begin
by bettercrazythanboring
Summary: It's not easy being the black sheep when you have to keep coating your wool with inky paint because all the white ones are terrible role models. (Or snippets of season 1 through Artemis' eyes.)


**1.**

_Don't draw attention. Don't involve yourself unless there's something in it for you. Don't assume they won't betray you._

_Betray them first._

These are the things you've been taught, and these are the things that run through your mind as you race down the street on a sunny Thursday afternoon after some guy who stole the purse of a generic old lady, a textbook-filled backpack weighing on your shoulder and hair flying in your face. You have no reason for doing this—many for turning back and forgetting it ever happened—but something in you just switched when you were _right there_ next to her.

What was it you'd vaguely heard her gush to her similarly old lady friend just a few minutes ago? Something about lending jewelry—the one in the purse—to her soon-to-be granddaughter-in-law for the wedding. Honestly, that's just _wrong_. Sure, you've stolen and you've conned, but there's a difference between taking some rich guy's thousands that he'd only use to throw a party and robbing someone of great personal sentiment just because you need something to pawn.

That's the way you've always seen it, at least.

You duck in an alley and climb over the blocking fence with just a few agile moves and, when the thief crosses your path, you incapacitate him with one finger to the shoulder. You don't call the cops, you don't beat him up, and you don't even lower your hoodie—because Dad has eyes and ears everywhere, and he'd probably arrange another cage match to the death if he knew you were doing this—but when you rip the purse from the man's greedy hands and backtrack to find the lady, she gives you a smile that could power a lifehouse, and you wonder why you don't do stuff like this more.

It's not like you've never beaten your father in a fight before, and it's not like he isn't the toughest guy around, and it's not like you make a habit of being afraid—fear is paralysis, fear is weakness, fear is _useless_—so there's really nothing to stop you from going after small-time crooks. And this helping thing… feels kinda nice.

A little.

Mom's getting out soon and things are gonna be different. Maybe you've learned enough to manipulate the change into a direction you'd actually _want_.

_whatcha think about this? I've been holding it in, but now I'm letting it flow _

_whatcha think about this? I'm gonna do my own thing… yeah, I'm flying solo_

* * *

**2.**

The door's rough under your fingertips; every scratch Mom's made, every ink smudge Jade left behind, every indent from impromptu training sessions with Dad when the apartment was a more pleasant target for his sword than your neck—they all fade away as your ear presses against the wood, straining for just a sliver of sound.

Distant memories surface in your mind, as vague as belonging to another lifetime—vignettes of dinner tables covered sparingly in everything but laughter, until none was left of that too; of bedtime stories read in a soothing voice that told tales of other worlds, _better_ worlds; the image of your short, little hands pushing your screaming parents apart, which you see from a ceiling point of view, and you're not quite sure why.

Ah, yes, you remember now; they will raise their voices soon enough and you won't have to rummage through the kitchen for an eavesdropping glass like you're about to.

You wait, and wait, but it doesn't come. Your parents' bedroom is as quiet as it's ever been—more so, because an evening round of Dad's favorite radio news station has become a staple of your life together since it became just the two of you. This is just… quiet, as if no one were there.

One by one, random words slip through the cracks and the subject of the discussion slowly but surely becomes clear; it's you. It's always been you, from the first sword you were ever handed, to the friends you weren't allowed to have because human connections are distracting and unnecessary, to the corner he forced you in so that you had no choice but to kill (and hide the ensuing nightmares from him because guilt and regret are_ signs of weakness_, and you were never allowed to be weak). And no offense to Mom—whom you love, who is the reason you stayed with him, who gave you whatever moral compass you still have—but she hasn't exactly _been_ here all these years, and chose to _leave_ you in his hands, and doesn't know anything about you that you couldn't squeeze into two thousand and five hundred handwritten words a week; does she even _realize_ you've been awake for more than an hour a day this entire time?

And this night that you've been looking forward to for so long because maybe, finally you all could be a family again, that perhaps something magical would happen and the sum of these parts would be more than expected— But here are your parents, who've barely done a single thing worth being proud of while raising their daughters, coming together after six years as if nothing's changed and you're just the same little girl who wants nothing more than for her family to be together.

If they could make good choices for you, maybe you'd listen. But you got your father's stubbornness and the determination he taught you, and this is _your_ life, and they can't tell you what to make of it any longer. Not them, not a single other person till the ends of the galaxy and beyond.

Now, where's that green little getup you made two months ago because you were bored and a Green Arrow news special was on TV?

_so don't tell me how its gonna be; I'm my own _

_and the thing of it is... there's nothing 'round here that I'm gonna miss_

* * *

**3.**

The high of saving all of your teammates from certain death—after all that terror and paralyzing helplessness—hasn't faded yet when you enter your apartment and lean against the doorframe to calm your still frantic heart down, giving Mom a tired smile when she peeks around the corner. But it does—wear off, quite abruptly—when you spot your father's bag in the hallway and his booming voice reaches your ears for the first time in what felt like so long you'd almost forgotten what it sounded like.

"Jade tells me you joined the little pipsqueak squad," he says with one hand in the dresser when you stomp over to him with what little energy you have left—after the first day at a new school, a physics test in second period, and, oh, several hours of homicidal androids wreaking havoc on your friends—because you're not about to hide from him.

You eye his actions. "Didn't know you two kept in touch." A pinch of jealousy creeps into your voice, so you cross your arms and stare him down as he _oh so threateningly_ takes clothes out of the drawers and drops them into another bag. Oh, that's right; there were no trucks when he moved out, no warnings or farewells. He was just _gone_ one night.

"Wouldn't say we do, but I bail her out now and then."

A snort escapes you. "She's never needed bailing out."

"Call it partnerin' up, then, if that sits better with ya," he says and gives you one of his patented Lawrence Crock looks; you don't shy away from it even a bit, daring him to provoke you. He's taught you well and Dinah's taught you even better thus far, and, after tonight, you're no longer even remotely afraid of taking him on. "Which is _your_ job, if memory serves," he continues, cleaning his upper teeth with a swipe of tongue. "Should be doing that instead 'a fighting against us."

Your eyes linger on the stains at the bottom of his pants, which you'd mistake for mud if you weren't already painfully aware that they are innocent people's dried blood. "Sorry. Not interested."

"Is that what I taught you? To turn back on your family and everything you believe in? Everything I _raised_ you to be?"

"No, you taught me how to not be afraid of you _or_ what you want, and I learned how to think for myself on my own, thanks." Your fingers tug the top down to reveal the arrow on your chest in its full glory. "And don't kid yourself. _We_—" your finger wags between the two of you "—stopped being a family a long time ago, too; you taught me _that_ one when you never even tried to visit Mom in jail, let alone try to get her out. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a lot of sleep to catch up on because _I_ spent the day being almost killed by robot freaks who, I'm guessing, were sent by one of your colleagues. Night, Father of the Year."

'_cause you're holding me down; I just wanna fly_

_and there comes a time when I gotta say goodbye to the life that you see me in _

_here's where I begin _

* * *

**4.**

You've proved yourself, haven't you?

That's what you ask yourself over and over on the way to the Cave, with your heart bleeding and your eyes stinging—whether from the doubt or the anger, you can't tell. But you've done your best and saved all their lives, and, sure, you've made mistakes, but you've never given them a reason to doubt you. Not… not since your first mission, and you've learned better since them. You'll come clean. Eventually. Of course you will; these are your friends and the people in charge knew all along.

You'll tell them someday.

You've done nothing wrong, made no choices you shouldn't be proud of—since catching a glimpse of your sister's face for the first time in two years, and granting her a fate that didn't involve another Nguyen girl sitting behind bars and away from the family you once held so dear. You pity Jade and admire her, and hate her for the emotional hold she has over you even in the moment when she didn't have to think twice about blackmailing you, but you never, not for a second in all your life, stopped loving her, because she is your _sister_ and she stole flashlights from the convenience store across the street when you wanted to read more _Alice in Wonderland_ after bedtime, and, when things got really bad, all you had was hope. For you, for her, for everyone.

That you'd be together again someday, good as new.

Things are better now, and even good, but still that incessant, unrelenting hope plagues you. It's not as if you didn't let her go for yourself, too, because this team seemed like—and has now proven itself as—the answer to your eternal bus stop of a life, and you weren't ready to give it up after the events of one single night; but there was still a part of you, a distinct part, that lowered the bow not because it was a secret-keeper on the other end, but because it was _her_. And, despite how much you want your new family, you never stopped wanting the old one.

One thing rattles inside your mind as you step into the phone booth, bouncing off the walls of your skull with the need to be known. Would you make the same choice today?

You never meant for life to take that question literally; really, it was hypothetical. But when you see the Roy-shaped surprise at the end of the zeta tube and half your family's mugshot equivalents behind him, you have to admit you're kind of glad it did.

Wally may say you've got nothing to prove to him, but you _do_ have something to prove to _yourself_.

(Prove that you're a lost little girl who dug a hole too deep for herself, apparently. Why did you even get involved in this? They gave you an out, all of them did, and you dived in headfirst anyway.)

_there's a voice in my head telling me "come on, come on; move on"_

_there's a voice in my head telling me I know my right from wrong_

* * *

**5.**

Didn't you always know you'd end up here? On some level, you must have known. It was only a matter of time before your past and your choices, and your lies caught up to you. You hoped the illusion would last longer, that you could cling onto this perfect thing that you'd dreamed of for so long without knowing the exact shape of it, but you'd be a fool for not knowing it couldn't last forever.

And you are no fool.

You just wish you had the strength to end this limbo, one way or the other; it's torture. Being a thief you could deal with, villainy you could probably grow accustomed to, and you could even learn to love a civilian life... but a traitor isn't something you've ever been, and being one is killing you now.

Literally tearing your heart up from the inside, it feels like, and it's only been just over three weeks. How are you supposed to go on pretending you're on these kids' side, when you really, actually _are_? How long is he going to demand this of you, knowing full well what it's costing you?

You can't keep doing this anymore. Be shunned after giving them whatever intel you can, cut off all ties with both sides, move to Alaska—whatever's necessary. Anything but this.

That's when Conner says something you never thought you'd hear come out of his mouth, wearing an expression of chagrin—which matches what you'd probably look like right about now if you hadn't, at age eleven, learned to maintain control over your facial muscles in the most dire of circumstances—and that pesky little seed of hope springs back up in your throat when the heroes around you, people you want to call friends or maybe family, react with shock and confused curiosity, and no vitriol or rejection whatsoever.

It gives you the strength to step forward, heart pumping erratically, and lay your secrets on the line, too. Your eyes connect with Conner's as you bring the mugshots up on the screen and you know you've got at least one person in your corner, angry as he may be most of the time. But when your gaze rises from the floor it's all but memorized by now, because you've had actual nightmares about this moment and the faces they're no doubt going to make; you can't even believe you're doing this, this thing that feels like lava, engulfing your feet and raining behind the neck of your top—

When you cast aside your perceived truths and replace them with hard reality, you watch as they all step into your corner without a second thought.

Or maybe as they _stay_ in your corner, where they've always been.

You almost feel guilty for not trusting them before, even though none begrudge you for it. As you continue your confession, certain some dutiful, small fairytale being out there must be chipping invisible ice bricks off the top of your head—you grow lighter and warmer with every word—your eyes start to sting from the months of pent up emotional distance and the support practically radiating off every one of them at that very moment.

Maybe making mistakes is okay. Maybe showing weakness is okay. If a bunch of people as great as this can accept you and let you be the hero you want to be anyway… What's the worst it can do?

This truly is your family, you think with a foreign elbow on your shoulder and a reassuring smile from Zatanna, but it doesn't make you want your other family any less. The opposite; you want it more than ever now.

_they say what doesn't kill you can make you strong _

_now I know what it means; you can try to bend, but you ain't breaking my dreams_

* * *

**6.**

The boot connects with your father's cheekbone and the mask flies off, and it's the kind of satisfaction you've never really felt before—not after getting a good grade on a hard test, not after coming home alive at the end of a mission, not even when beating Dad in a fight. It's not better or more profound, necessarily, than all those others; if anything, it's petty and spiteful, and something you shouldn't be proud of feeling.

Still, there's something of a payback in kicking him when he's already down, without giving him a chance to fight back; like he did with you for so long. You restrain yourself to just one kick—not even restrain, because the urge for more doesn't make itself prevalent—but, for the first time, you feel free. Not just of him, but of his hold over you.

You let Wally take the mask that's haunted your dreams once or twice and place it in the souvenir stand without any of the internal objections you had when it was Cheshire's memento instead of Sportsmaster's. You stare at it later and it's just a thing, just an empty piece of metal, not a symbol of terror or control. It's just a thing and he's just a person, and you're so much better off without him, even if it's gonna take you sixteen lifetimes to unlearn everything he taught you.

Strides hesitant, but ongoing—because they have given you absolutely no reason to doubt them and today has turned out so much better than anything you could've hoped for—you make your way to the lounge, where the rest of the team should be gathered among a pile of potato chips and dipping sauce, as is the after-mission routine. You have to pause in the doorway to take in the view of Conner casually flinging popcorn into Robin's mouth and calm your nerves, and your eyes fall on M'gann, standing in the opposite doorway and mirroring you, and you two are probably thinking the same thing.

All of you have got a lot to talk through tonight.

_I'll be making mistakes, coming up at a loss _

_I'll be tumbling down, but like MC, shake it off _

_I'll stay cool 'cause I know who's boss of me, myself, and I _

* * *

**7.**

"Hey, sis," she says and you scold yourself for jolting because you were _trained_ for this and you're not supposed to let your guard down _ever_, but that damn finale of Friends just gets you every time, even though you _know_ Rachel got off the plane. You shove your laptop away, to the other side of the bed, but, before you can jump on your feet and assume a battle stance, and maybe retrieve some semblance of dignity, Jade plops down on her old bed—the one you've barely touched since she left almost seven years ago—and crosses her legs on top, resting elbows on either knee.

How long has it been since you saw your older sister, without her mask closeby? Four years? Five? And even now, the Cheshire cat's smile stares at you from the poster right behind her. No escape. You eye her warily. "What do you want?"

She's silent for a good while, just examining the room. Her lips purse and her eyes dart from object to object quicker than you can follow, and you'd never noticed before that she favors winged eyeliner. She's absolutely _stunning_—in that feral, dangerous kind of way—and the desire to get to know her outside of sais and hidden faces overwhelms you with an intensity far surpassing anything you've felt toward her in the last thirty months.

"To get the nostalgia out of my system," Jade says at last. "_Obviously_."

"What, does it interfere with your killing and maiming?" You stare her down, wishing you had the courage to ask for her address.

"Yes, actually," she says and examines you as intensely—with the same scrutinizing gaze—as the room itself. You push out the intruding feeling that she's looking at the intact appendages and healed scars on you instead of the purpling bruises and bandaged gashes, to reassure herself that, despite the combat and the past, and the unspoken animosity between you two, you are still reasonably okay and she doesn't have to worry like the big sister she never really stopped being. "It does," she whispers as an afterthought.

"Mom's out," you say before you can think better of yourself. She straightens. "I don't know if Dad told you—it didn't seem that important to him—but she's probably in the kitchen right now, if you want to say hi."

She lowers her feet gracefully to the floor. "Nah, think I've had enough nostalgia for one night. Three minutes more than the last few years, right?"

"She'd probably want to see you." The old bunny slippers under her bed are where you look as the words slip out, because it's painful and embarrassing, how much you wish she would stay for dinner and catch up with Mom, and you three could be a family again for one night instead of three girls on their own in the ruthless world.

You know better than to hope, but you can't stop. The girl pauses, one foot on the window sill and black mane moving in the wind. "Is she proud of you?"

That's not a question whose answer you'd ever expected to be important to you, especially when the subjects are your parents, and it's much less one you ever thought would come from Jade. "I think so," you say.

"Then trust me—" she puts on her favorite baseball cap from when you were kids "—she wouldn't want to see me."

And you are alone again in this dark room with a smile on the wall and no sister in it.

_I'll keep moving even when the beat is gone_

_I'll keep doing what i've got to do to carry on_

* * *

**8.**

"_You gotta be tough, Baby Girl," he said. "The world ain't gonna hand you anything, so you have to _take_ it. Rip it from a corpse's arms, if it comes to that. Don't matter if it's yours to have." He handed you the knife and tapped your shoulder. "What's yours and mine and someone else's was never up to us to decide; nature don't work that way. They're buying up the moon, now, see? Ridiculous. Reject the system, Artemis, and it can never reject you."_

Was that his version of love? Some kind of prophylactic protection from the harsh realities of life?

You've lied awake many nights thinking about these words and ones like it. These lessons, put into your cradle so long ago… what role did they play? You see Jade—dark and cold, and distant—and wonder if maybe they have some merit because, despite all her hatred, she's followed his instructions to the letter and seems perfectly content. But what kind of a life is that, on the edge of society, always running?

_Reject the system, Artemis._ Isn't that already what you did, when you dressed in green and went patrolling? Isn't that what you're still doing, as part of the team? The Justice League may have relations with the UN, and the police rarely stop known vigilantes from doing what they're so good at, but there's always been a kind of Robin Hood element to this, because what you all want, why you're doing this, isn't for the glory or the fame, or even personal vendettas.

It's to restore balance, and to protect those who can't protect themselves.

The problem with rejecting the system, you've always felt, is that taking material possessions and redistributing them in fairer proportions never got anyone hurt. What he's doing, what he always thought you'd grow up to do, is giving into greed. It's taking valid injustices prevalent in the world and hiding behind them as excuses for selfish quests of power and bloodlust, and even fun, perhaps. It's cowardly, that he couldn't even tell you that straight—that, as far as he was concerned, you could do anything you wanted to the world and stop holding back like the rest of society—and instead dressed it up in pretty ideas to spoonfeed to a _child_.

Well, you may be selfish and you may be greedy, but that's _your_ problem and you're not gonna take it out on the world. This world that has always produced as many miracles as it has horrors.

He's got it all wrong. Reject the system? No; _fix it._

_so don't hold me down 'cause i'm gonna fly _

_and the time has come and I gotta say goodbye to the life that you see me in _

_here's where I begin _

* * *

**9.**

Five Chem classes into the second semester at this prep school, something about the way the light catches the slicked locks on the back of some head holds your wandering gaze. It's the same raven hair you've been staring at every time Mr. Fisher loses your attention with an anecdote about how useful science is in random everyday situations—because, let's face it, you've been making your own arrows since you were _eleven_ and "life-saving" is a _way_ better lesson in the importance of chemistry than impressing some girl with magic sand.

The rich freshman's—that's literally all you know about the kid—head holds your attention for long enough this time that, somewhere between cautionary measures to take when dealing with explosives and confiscating a molecule arrangement that forms a penis, it dawns on you that this gelled helmet is the same unkempt mane your fingers have ruffled through a dozen times on the team's movie nights.

The offended gasp you let out is disguised as a cough, but your mouth probably hangs wide open for about five minutes before you scribble a "YOU DORK" alongside a crude drawing of one of his hacking icons on a random piece of paper and throw it right at his head in a little ball. He has the _audacity_ to give you one of his signature wideass smirks over his shoulder then, and you, for some reason, see no better recourse than to stick your tongue out at him.

And that's how you officially become accidental friends with Dick Grayson. (Whose birthday party you actually went to a few months ago; _how_ did you not know then?)

It doesn't take you long after that to understand who his adoptive father is and finally truly grasp what a coincidence your acceptance into Gotham Academy so soon after joining the team was _not_. The next time Wally makes a Bruce Wayne quip, instead of picking on him for baseless conspiracy theories, you bury your face in M'gann's cookies to hide the budding smile forming on it.

That's also the night you've invited the whole team to your apartment for a group sleepover, cramped board games, a bunch of your favorite foods (that you didn't cook), and meeting your mom, who you're finally ready to admit is the strongest person you've ever known and whom nobody should be ashamed of. You're opening the book that is your life for tonight, and it's important that these people know the real you, the _full_ you, if you're ever going to truly feel like part of this group. Trust for trust, you say, and no betrayal ever again.

The eight of you push the two beds in your room together—because the other one is meant for family, and they _are_ family—and pass out splayed out in all directions, limbs tangled together and probably causing mild discomfort here and there. Sometime in the night, Wally ends up on the floor and Dick returns to Wayne Manor for sleep, and, in the morning, it turns out Conner was upright in the closet all along, but it's okay, because there's pancakes for everyone and the bank robbery a few hours later stretches out all the sore backs and stiff necks.

When you return home that day, you climb up on Jade's bed after pushing it back against the wall and pull the poster down with great care. You've found your Wonderland, you realize with a bemused smile as your hands tuck it into the drawer with other things she left behind. No use in pining for something already in your grasp.

_and I promise myself I ain't nobody's; I just wanna be free _

_and I promise myself, even though it don't always come easy _

_I'm gonna learn from my pain, never explain, do it my way - that's what I say_

* * *

**0.**

When you were two, you wanted to be a queen. When you were five—an adventurer. Nine—to have your family back together. Twelve—badass spy. And when you were fourteen, you wanted to be a scientist.

Now you're nearly sixteen, and all you want is to be the best person you can be; the rest can come later. If life's taught you anything, it's that people come and go, and so do skills and interests and priorities, but, at the end of the day, you're stuck with yourself no matter what. There's no off switch for the memories, the habits, the traits, no reset button for all the lapses in judgment. It's your job to make your future self proud, and to make your mother proud, and to do the right thing just because it's the right thing, even if it's the hardest one.

Your name is Artemis and this is your life, and it's a damn good one.

_I promise myself; I'm the only one who will believe me_

_I promise myself: I'm the only one who can complete me_


End file.
